It wasn’t long before my grandfather got back into the car, his appearance the same as it was before, everything the same as it was before, like he hadn’t spent twenty minutes in some woman’s house. It infuriated me, how easy it was for him to continue on like nothing happened, and I kept my face to the window as he drove, following the passing trees and muddy-brown apartment complexes with my eyes. He turned on the radio to some jazz, a tickle in my throat and a flutter in my chest, and I turned it back off. He grumbled but didn’t do anything else.
“I don’t understand you,” I said finally.
“That’s okay,” he said. “I nuh need yuh fi understand me.”
At Nana’s house, my mother’s car took up the driveway, and my grandfather had to settle for the street. Inside it smelled like oxtail and rice, salty and rich. The TV was on, the volume loud enough to overpower the religious mutterings coming from the stereo. My mother was sitting on the couch, her ponytail even more dishevelled, her face stiff with irritation. My grandfather unlaced his shoes in the foyer, and Nana walked toward him and watched him take them off.
“Last time I leave my shoes here, I found candy wrappers in them,” he said.
“I tell you say, if you take a candy from my likkle bowl there, fi throw the wrapper inna the garbage but yuh nuh listen, yuh put the wrapper back inna the bowl.”
My grandfather kissed his teeth but his expression was soft, his body loose. “Oxtail smell burnt,” he said.
Nana laughed and waved her hand dismissively. She headed back to the kitchen. “My oxtail never burn, I cook it nice all the time.”
I pushed my sandals onto the shoe mat against the wall and watched as my grandfather took a seat at the middle of the plastic-covered table, Nana taking the lid off of her dutchie pot to see how much rice was left. He interlocked his fingers on the table, a look of satisfied anticipation on his face.
My mother called to me.
She turned down the volume of the TV when I joined her on the sofa and she looked at me expectantly. “Well,” she said. “What happened? Where’d you go? Nana would not shut up for the two hours you were gone.”
Even before opening my mouth I realized that I’d known from the moment my grandfather had pulled up to Lorraine’s house that I wasn’t going to say anything about the visit, that I didn’t want the house to echo with screams so loud they’d wrack my entire body. My grandfather had known it, too — my mother made scenes; I didn’t — and I forced myself to swallow the bitter humiliation of being so predictable in my need for quiet.
“We went to the shop. It took longer than expected.”
I could tell she knew I was lying but she didn’t ask me any more questions, she only turned the volume back up on the TV. She had to know what I’d only just now discovered: that peace could only exist in this family when we lied about everything, at least to each other.
Inside the dining room, Nana was gliding from the fridge to the cupboards to the stove, taking out drinks and plates and forks, moving like a type of dance. My grandfather watched her movements, smiling slightly, his eyes tracing the outline of her figure, and I told myself not to stare at them too long because if he caught me, he would remember himself and his smile would vanish.
Celebration
They got drunk together for the first time — a bottle of sparkling wine the culprit — on Kara’s eighteenth birthday. Both women, short and tiny, were pretty much gone after the third glass, and on the fourth, Eloise swallowed hard and tapped her finger ruefully on the dining table.
“It’s not because you’re eighteen,” she said, stifling a burp. “It’s because you’re graduating.”
Kara thought it looked like her mother was about to say something else but after a short pause, Eloise guzzled down the last of her drink and poured herself another glass instead.
Kara took another sip and thought back to her last birthday, when Eloise had dropped her off at the subway so she could take the train downtown to school. She’d opened the car door to leave but Eloise had grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her back into the passenger’s seat.
“I just want you to imagine something,” she’d said. “I was your age when you were born.”
Kara had only blinked twice at her, slack-jawed and silent, and then Eloise told her to have a good day. Every few months after that, she’d pipe up and say to Kara, “When I was your age, you were three months . . . six months . . . nine months . . . fat and crying and hungry. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine dealing with that?”
But none of those questions were asked this time. Eloise had come home early, a bottle of Prosecco in hand, and told Kara to get two glasses from the kitchen cupboard. Kara had another year until she was legal but they were going to celebrate anyway. She was about to be a high-school graduate and she had offers, possibilities, from a full ride to York University to a “Congratulations!” letter from the University of Toronto, an acceptance she’d been working toward since her first year of high school.
They raised their glasses for a fifth toast and after their rims clinked together Eloise started to giggle, the throaty cackle bouncing off all the walls of the living room, of the entire bachelor.
Drunk
1.
The lunch period was halfway finished when Justin and Hannah each received a call. For Hannah it was her mother; for Justin it was the housekeeper. Apparently the mail had come to both houses and they each had envelopes addressed to them.
“Well, is it big or small?” said Justin.
Hannah twirled her blonde hair around her finger. “Is it thick? Yes, open it.”
I’d already gotten my envelopes, all three of them thick with “Congratulations!” letters and course catalogues. My mother and I had a pros and cons list taped to the fridge, and I’d done the friend freak-out with Rochelle, the one person from my old neighbourhood who still talked to me, the one person who knew I didn’t think I was too stush for Eglinton West and Marlee now.
Rochelle was going to go to University of Toronto, the Mississauga campus, and she’d informed me that Anita was choosing Sheridan. Anita had been the first to brush me off whenever I found myself back in the neighbourhood. Then, not too long after Anita stopped coming to meet me, Aishani would always be working whenever I came by, and Jordan would just be “busy.” Rochelle told me Jordan had decided on York, and Aishani was struggling with whether she wanted to go to university at all — the student loans would bury her and she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life owing back.
Justin got off the phone first and then Hannah. Dalhousie had accepted Hannah and Queen’s had rejected Justin. He jumped down from the tree he’d climbed the minute we got to the park and walked over to the chain-link fence Hannah was leaning against. I stayed sitting at the base of another tree not too far away, balancing myself on my knapsack so my jeans wouldn’t be grass-stained.
“The suicide rate up there is insane anyway.” Justin reached into his cargo shorts for a pack of menthols. “I’m better off going to McMaster.”
“You got off the waiting list?” said Hannah.
He cupped his hand around a blue lighter as he sparked his cigarette, then took a drag before answering her. “It’s only a matter of time,” he said, scratching the mole on his right cheek. Smoke billowed from his mouth, and I scrunched up my nose to keep from inhaling anything.
Hannah snorted. “You’re pretty sure of yourself.”
“No reason not to be,” said Justin with a shrug and a grin.
His easy confidence wasn’t for show and it burned me. I didn’t know how to be that relaxed; it came across as arrogant. But still, it had to be nice.
“Well, I want to celebrate,” said Hannah. “I heard a few people are ditching the afternoon, going to Andrei’s.”
“Oh yeah?” Justin leaned over the fence and spat into someone’s backyard. “Which people?”
“No
ra, Ryan, Sebastian. Maybe a few others.”
“Sweet.”
I didn’t say anything. Those people were just faces I saw in the hall; I knew none of them. I didn’t really know Hannah and Justin, either. For the first two years of high school I’d only hung out with Terrence Peters. But when his family moved to Whitby, I somehow found myself with Justin and Hannah. I was in the same drama class as them and had been since the beginning of high school. We were always the stronger actors, and a lot of the time we were put together for group projects. At the beginning of last year, Hannah asked if I wanted to spend lunch with them. It became routine before I really knew what was happening.
“So Kara, how about it?” said Justin.
I pushed my lips to the side, as if I were considering the option. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
“What is your, like, beef or whatever with fun?” said Hannah.
“My ‘beef’?”
“I’m serious, you’ve gotten into all of your dream schools, what’s the point of even going to class anymore?”
“Hannah, the last time I skipped school it didn’t exactly go well,” I said.
“You really need to let that go. It was, like, a million years ago, and we won’t ditch you like they did, I promise.”
“If I leave now I think I might be able to grab something to eat before French.”
“Be serious. Do you really want to spend the afternoon doing conjugations in French class?” said Hannah. “It’s Friday!”
“I don’t, but —”
“Don’t you get it? None of your schools rejected you,” said Justin. “You can do whatever the hell you want. Seize the fucking day, man.”
When I only blinked at them, Hannah groaned and pretended to choke me. “Your mom won’t find out, okay? She isn’t God.”
Justin started looking to his left then to his right and back again. He looked up to the sky, moving his head in frantic circles as if waiting for something to fall. “Hannah dared to blaspheme against Kara’s mom and wasn’t struck down by lightning?” He gasped. “What is this miracle?”
“Stop it,” I said. “You’re not funny.”
“I’m a little funny.”
“You’re a jackass,” said Hannah. She turned to me. “You’ve kept a secret boyfriend from your mom, you can skip an afternoon. Let’s go.”
She took my arm and started pulling me up from the grass. They were so sure I was entitled to a little bit of mayhem.
“I don’t even know Andrei,” I said.
“That doesn’t matter, you’re with us,” said Hannah. She turned to Justin. “Right?”
He nodded. “Yep. You’re with us.”
* * *
2.
Andrei’s father answered the front door. He was a tall man — so tall he hunched. His hair was greying and his face was thin and drawn, his pale skin tight to his bones. He was bundled in a red terry cloth robe and had on gym socks even though he was wearing brown slippers. I took a step backward, preparing to turn on my heel and run away, but Justin smiled.
“Hey, Mr. K,” he said.
“Justin!”
Mr. K clapped Justin on the shoulder, quizzing him about girls and grades like he was a proud uncle. He then turned to Hannah and chuckled before pulling her diminutive body into a tight hug. When he finally saw me, he stared.
“This is Kara,” said Justin. “A friend.”
Andrei’s father nodded and stepped to the side to let us through. “Andrei is at the back.”
The house wasn’t a mansion but it was close enough to one that I had to remind myself to appear unmoved. I didn’t want the amazement to show on my face as I followed Justin and Hannah through a foyer that could probably hold my grandmother’s entire bungalow. I looked behind me, expecting Mr. K to be trailing our footsteps, but he was walking up a spiral staircase to the next floor of the house.
The back turned out to be the living room. It was spacious and sparse in that modern kind of way: grey suede couches and beige carpeting, a television that took up nearly the entire wall. Andrei was standing at a stocked bar, pulling his brown hair into a bun. Ryan Collingwood sat on the sofa, still wearing his school-issued gym shorts. On the coffee table in front of him were two glasses nestled on coasters and a small bag of weed. Hannah and Justin walked over to the couches but I stayed where I was. I’d expected us to hang out in the basement or in Andrei’s room; the openness of the living room made me anxious.
“What’s her deal?” said Ryan, nodding his head toward me.
Hannah put her feet up on the couch and watched as he started to roll a joint. “She’s shy. You guys know Kara, right? Kara . . .” — she looked at me — “Davis?”
I nodded.
“Kara Davis,” said Hannah again.
“Yeah, sure,” said Andrei. He gestured to the liquor bottles on the bar. “What’s your drink, Kara Davis?”
Justin laughed. “She doesn’t drink.”
“You don’t know that,” I said. I’d spoken before thinking, but I didn’t take it back. I didn’t like being predictable; it felt too much like a weakness.
Hannah grinned at me from the couch. “She’ll have what I’m drinking,” she said. “A screwdriver.”
Andrei snapped his fingers. “Got it.” He glanced at me. “You know, you can sit down. You’re making me nervous standing there like that.”
The armchair was nearest. I was comforted slightly by being closest to the front door.
“Where is everyone? I thought Nora was coming,” said Justin.
“Dude, my bed is off limits,” said Andrei.
Justin leaned back onto the couch. “Whatever. You have a million rooms in this house, we can just use one of them.”
I grabbed the glass from Andrei when he walked over with my drink. I just wanted something to do with my hands, to hide my awkwardness with the simple motion of putting a cup to my lips. I took a sip. Sweet. Tart. The vodka scorched my throat.
Drinking wasn’t an entirely new experience. Anita’s older sister bought us all coolers once, when we were fifteen — a bribe to keep our mouths shut about the thirty-five-year-old man she was seeing. Even my mother had celebrated my acceptances with two glasses of Prosecco. But this felt different. Justin watched me, his eyes fixed on my expression, and I took a larger gulp, forbidding myself to cough.
Ryan Collingwood turned to me from the sofa, holding out his freshly rolled joint. “Toke?”
I waved my free hand. “I’m good.”
“Really?” He kept his arm outstretched. “Aren’t you, like, Jamaican or something?”
“Ryan!” Hannah shoved him, laughing incredulously. “Don’t be such a racist.”
“What are you talking about? How was that racist?”
She shook her head. “Kara’s Canadian anyway.”
I drank more to keep from having to talk. By the time Nora and Sebastian showed up, I was halfway through my third glass. The rest of the afternoon swirled by me in a warm haze: Justin and Nora chasing each other up the stairs. Hannah and Ryan passing the joint back and forth. Andrei staring at me curiously, like I had the secrets to the universe, like if he asked the right questions I would have no choice but to share them with him.
“How long does it take you to get your hair like that?” he asked. “So wait, what’s a weave, then?”
When I finally decided to leave, it took me a minute to remember how to balance myself. Walking wasn’t difficult but my body felt light, weightless; I was watching myself move instead of actually causing the movements. It was lucky my mother had moved us downtown, that I didn’t have to take a bus and then a train all the way up to Eglinton West or Wilson and Bathurst, that this home was only about twenty minutes away.
She was in the kitchen when I stumbled through the front door. The stink of macaroni and cheese polluted the air and made my s
tomach churn.
“Kara?” Her voice was sharp. It rattled in my head. “What are you doing home?”
I had an answer for this. I’d prepared one just in case I ran into her or anyone who knew her. I’d prepared another one for if I ran into Nana or any of the church ladies she shared a pew with, even though they were never downtown. And I’d prepared one in case I ran into a teacher or a secretary on the sidewalk, a janitor on a lunch break.
My mother kept pushing. “Kara, answer me when I talk to you. What are you doing home?”
I remember the sound of boiling water, the blurry sight of my mother turning away from the stove. The television was on and our one window was open. I remember opening my mouth to speak, to gift her one of my excuses, and then I remember bending over, hands on my knees, and hurling on the spot.
* * *
3.
The problem was, I only apologized for the vomit.
It was the next morning. Throughout the night I’d gulped down three glasses of water and put a dent in my hunger with two slices of unbuttered toast, throwing up only one more time. My mother hadn’t talked to me the entire time but now she clattered around in the kitchen, banging down mugs and pots and slamming cupboard doors shut, muttering loudly as if I weren’t a few feet away from her.
“Likkle girl think she grown because she turned eighteen. Is she crazy? Hmph. She must’a not know who I am.”
I’d never heard my mother speak in an accent before. An image of Nana unfurled in my mind, of when she was angry and when that anger pushed her to move, pushed her to pace the hall and pound her fists, pushed her to yell, to claim the entire house with her voice, but kept her from speaking to the cause of her rage, kept her from admitting that another person had triggered such a response. It was a rage my mother inherited, and hearing the accent and seeing my mother ease into that same kind of fury was what got me to speak more than anything else. I sat myself up on the sofa bed before taking a breath.
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